


the quick and quiet beat

by futureboy (PokeRowan)



Category: Rooster Teeth/Achievement Hunter/Funhaus RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - Grand Theft Auto Setting, Dancing, Fake AH Crew, M/M, Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-17
Updated: 2017-06-17
Packaged: 2018-11-15 05:39:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,049
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11224458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PokeRowan/pseuds/futureboy
Summary: Ryan runs into some problems retrieving his clothes. Jeremy, having returned from a party in the early hours, helps out.[Prompted on tumblr]





	the quick and quiet beat

**Author's Note:**

  * For [InvadingThoughts](https://archiveofourown.org/users/InvadingThoughts/gifts).



> [RPF disclaimer: Written according to guidelines set by RT employees (to the best of my knowledge). This is a fictional series of events using characters inspired by real people.]
> 
> 100\. “I just got out of the shower, I can’t dance. What if my towel falls off?”  
> “I'd love some jeremwood for 100, if you don't mind ❤ -zeroyalchilly”
> 
>  
> 
> [You might wanna listen to this, too.](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JErVP6xLZwg)

It’s been a hell of a party, but Jeremy’s feet have gotten to the point in the early hours where they fucking _sting_ , and he can’t wait to collapse into his bed in the penthouse. The whiskey’s set his temperature at a comfortably warm level. He’s still got his words. Time to kick off his clothes, play some relaxing vintage music, and drift into the morning.

Apparently, events have transpired to prevent this.

He opens the door and nearly jumps outta his skin when he sees Ryan Haywood, in nothing but a black towel, perched on the end of his bed.

“What the _fuck_ , dude--?!”

Ryan pinches the bridge of his nose. “I got out of the shower, and Gavin was in my room--”

“Well, kick him out! What are you doing in _my_ room?”

“Waiting for you, obviously,” he says snarkily, standing up, “and I _can’t_ kick him out because he’s with Matt.”

Jeremy wishes he hadn’t stood up, because damn if he can’t make out every scar on his torso, even his face – there’s a droplet of water running down his forehead, but all the face paint’s been rinsed clean off. Ryan’s even got his hair in a stupid little _bun_ on the top of his head, what the fuck.

“With _Matt_?” asks Jeremy. “What are Gavin and Matt doing in your roo- _ooooohhhhhhhhhh_. Oh, boy.”

Ryan winces. “I’ve heard some words to that effect, yeah.”

“Gross.”

“Look, I just wanna borrow a shirt and some pants. I’m gonna crash on the couch by the minibar, so…”

He looks tired.

Jeremy decides to take pity on him.

“No prob, pal. You sure about the pants? They might be a little short in the leg on you.”

“Yes,” he says wearily, “I’m sure.”

“Lemme see what I can find,” Jeremy tells him gently, and definitely doesn’t stumble a little bit on the way over to his dresser. He pokes at his speakers before he starts rummaging through the drawers, to try to provoke anything gentle to play, and is rewarded with some Nat King Cole. He's feeling drowsier already.

“…I didn’t think you were a swing fan.”

“Helps me sleep,” Jeremy grins, and tosses aside a shirt that’s too small even for _him_. He can picture Ryan scowling from behind him. “You should try it, maybe you’d get so bored of the mushiness you’d drop off.”

“I like mushy,” Ryan mutters. It’s always funny to realise that one of the scariest men in Los Santos will defend his embarrassing personal details immediately. “Were you dancing to that tonight, then?”

“Oh, god, no, we went to a club Michael picked.” Ah, that shirt might fit him. White wasn’t exactly the Vagabond’s style, but tough shit, it was all he had. He’s sure he’s got some jogging pants somewhere, too.

“ _Can_ you dance to it?”

“I could. I _do_ , sometimes. Not, like, actual swing or jazz moves, but it’s relaxing stuff. I don’t know,” Jeremy shrugs, and has an evil, tipsy little idea. “Why,” he grins, and turns around, “do you wanna?”

“I just got out of the shower, I can’t dance,” Ryan retorts. Jeremy doesn’t hear a _no_. “What if my towel falls off?”

“Then let it fall,” he winks.

“…Give me those pants.”

“I will if you dance with me.”

“ _Jeremy_.”

“Fine,” says Jeremy, wrinkling his nose and throwing the shirt and pants at Ryan’s face (who stumbles to catch them one-handedly, clutching at his towel). “You’re no fun.”

“Turn around, you deviant.”

“Jesus _Christ_ , you’re pissy tonight. You’re fuckin’ _welcome_ , by the way--”

“Gavin and Matt are making beautiful memories in _my bed_ ,” Ryan protests, sounding muffled. “Forgive me if I’m a little peeved.”

 _Peeved_.

What a loser.

“You done yet?” he says, and is halfway through adding _see you on the couch tomorrow, asshole,_ when he feels hands at the small of his back.

“Thanks,” comes a murmur from behind Jeremy’s left ear.

Nat King Cole’s still comfortably warbling from the speakers on his dresser, and it’s one of his favourite relaxing songs, too, but he can’t concentrate on it when there are fingers smoothing the tension out of his lower back.

“…What are you doing?”

Ryan’s soft laugh tickles the hair on the back of his neck. “Receive pants. Give dance. You were very clear.”

“So I was,” Jeremy breathes, instead of saying _yeah, I was clear, but I wasn’t serious_. He doesn’t wanna ruin it.

He turns around, and looks up at the Vagabond – not the Vagabond, because _Ryan’s_ face is clean, all rounded corners and nicks across his cheekbones. Vagabond doesn’t wear clean, damp hair in a bun, or pyjama pants which barely brush his ankles. And he certainly doesn’t dance to traditional pop from the sixties with other gang members.

Yet here he is.

“Come on,” Ryan mumbles, and taking one of Jeremy’s hands, places a cool palm on his opposing shoulder. “Call this dancing?”

“Shuddup,” says Jeremy, and pulls him closer by the waist.

They sway unadventurously – _contentedly_ – to the quick and quiet beat. Jeremy only just comes up to Ryan’s chest, can barely peer over his shoulders at all, in fact, but from where he stands, that’s not so bad. He can smell sandalwood soap. Laundry detergent.

“Are you humming along?”

Ryan breaks from the lyrics to make his own noise of agreement: _V is very, very… Extra-ordinary…_

Despite himself, Jeremy grins, and tries not to flush with how pleasant the whole scene is.

The trumpets reach a muted crescendo in the background of Jeremy’s room, and (perhaps somewhat reluctantly) they drop each other’s hands.

“Thanks for the clothes,” Ryan says, amused.

Jeremy decides to play it up: “no trouble at all, sir,” he grins, bowing, “and might I thank you for the pleasure of our dance.”

“…See you tomorrow, Jeremy.”

Ryan grabs his towel, slings it over his shoulder, and starts backing out the door leading to the penthouse corridor. His smile barely falters. (God, does it look wonderful on his paint-free face-- an intimidating canvas, scrubbed clean and redone in something _positive_ \--)

“Yeah. G’night, Ry,” he says.

And when he finally flops into bed, remembering his aching soles, Jeremy realises he’ll never be able to listen to that song to relax _ever again_. Man. Ryan’s such a dick.

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://futureboy-ao3.tumblr.com)!


End file.
